


Moving On

by orphan_account



Series: Two Brothers Holmes [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Cane, Fun, Funny, Implied Johnlock, Kidlock, M/M, Moving On, Punishment, School, Teenlock, implied Mycroft/Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 00:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2528093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One single action causes Sherlock to move on from all the pain and hurt from his schooldays. It's only a bonus that he gets an applause for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving On

**Author's Note:**

> I feel the need to clarify after a series of comments on another work, which I have since deleted: I do not promote or approve of the corporal punishment or abuse of minors. These stories are written purely for entertainment purposes.

“Sherlock, when we get back we're getting a takeaway. You've barely eaten all week, you look awful.” John spoke firmly, and sounded irresistibly like Mrs Holmes.

“Yes, mother.” came Sherlock's sarcastic reply. However, he did agree entirely with what John said – the case had lasted five days, and in that period he had probably slept for about three hours and eaten about five hundred calories. Much as he hated his body for holding him back, he was beginning to feel the pains of sleep deprivation and hunger. A shower, a curry and a long sleep and he'd be ready for the next case.

“I'm fairly sure that your mother wouldn't be pleased if she knew that you hadn't eaten in a week.” John told Sherlock, fiddling with the lock to the flat before grinning. “Or Mycroft, with his 'headmaster's slipper' that he mentioned.”

Sherlock's eyes seemed to roll of his own accord. “Do shut up, John. You can order in the meal – curry, obviously – because I am in desperate need of a shower. I can smell myself, John, and that is never a good thing.”

“I'm surprised you're involved enough with yourself to notice.” John quipped back, but Sherlock only heard half of the sentence: as soon as the flat was open, he had bounded through to the bathroom. Typical. With a sigh, John typed in the curry house number from memory.

* * *

 

Later that night, after an incredibly satisfying meal (even if food was just fuel, Sherlock couldn't _help_ but notice how delicious it was), Sherlock lay in bed quietly contemplating the case. Really, he was irritated at himself at how long it had taken him to discover the cause of the case. Seventeen people across the nation had suddenly died while alone in their homes shortly after returning from trips abroad. No foreign countries or recent diseases in common, no connection at all. Then it'd had turned out that all had been accidentally poisoned by an international healthcare provider who had passed on painkillers that had been poisoned in the factory. _Obvious._ How could he have assumed it was a murderer at first? As he thought over his shortcomings, he slipped into a deep sleep...

* * *

 

A slight noise, imperceptible to most sleeping ears, jolted Sherlock awake. Light was bursting into the room, and a stone cold cup of tea sat on his bedside.

“Sleeping beauty awakes at last.” came a smug, self-satisfied voice...Mycroft. Of course.

“What do you want?” Sherlock groaned, pushing himself up in bed and downing the cold tea, wincing a little at the cloying flavour of the separating milk.

“To observe you sleeping.” Mycroft sarcastically replied. “You look just how you did as a baby when you slept.”

A rude, snorty noise escaped Sherlock's lips. “What do you  _want?_ ”

“There's a reunion at Wilkes. We have specifically been invited via mother – apparently, we're both on the 'notable alumni' list on Wikipedia. Father is incredibly insistent that we go, and Mother thinks we should too.”

Sherlock sighed heavily and dropped himself back down onto the pillow. “When is it?”

“Today. In two and a half hours. Get dressed, brother mine.”

Before Sherlock could give some obscene response, Mycroft left the room.

“Bollocks.” Sherlock muttered to himself.

* * *

 

John couldn't help but crack up when the two Holmes brothers emerged into the living room. Mycroft was dressed in a smart suit and was carrying his standard umbrella, looking suave and smart, while Sherlock was in the singular pair of jeans in his possession and a tight black T-shirt, looking more like an overgrown student than anything else. They looked as different as chalk and cheese, with Sherlock evidently dressing casually to annoy not only Mycroft but his school.

“John, I'll be gone for most of the day – if you see a case, text me.”

John nodded. “Bit casual for school, aren't you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I'm not a student any more, John, because that would make you a paedophile.”

Mycroft tapped his umbrella impatiently against the ground. “We have two hours to make a two hour drive, we need to be  _off_ Sherlock – I promised Mother and Father that we'd go to this. Come along.”

Turning back to grin at John as they advanced towards the door, Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shook his head. However, before John could respond the brothers were out of the flat and on their way down to the car which Mycroft had arranged. 

“Did you _have_ to dress like that?” Mycroft hissed as they entered the gloomy black vehicle, prodding at the muscle clearly visible underneath the tight black fabric.

“I'm not going to wear a uniform to go there again, Mycroft.” Sherlock easily replied, yanking his mobile from his pocket and clicking onto the internet.

“You barely wore it the first time! You must have been slippered for uniform infractions a hundred times.”

A laugh escaped from Sherlock as the car began to roll away from London and towards their quiet alma mater. “You'd know, you got me for it a few times.”

“You deserved it.” Mycroft instantly replied. “You insisted on breaking every school rule there was. What did you get caned for when you were fifteen, again? Spraying ammonia all over the Chemistry laboratory?”

“I was _bored_ , Mycroft – my separate tutoring hadn't been arranged, it was the start of the year, and I wasn't exactly going to pay attention to a lesson that I'd done when I was seven!”

There was a moment of silence between the two brothers Holmes as the tension bubbled down a little. Then, Sherlock grinned.

“You weren't exactly crime-free yourself, Mycroft. Smoking?”

Mycroft shook his head and rolled his eyes all in one smooth movement. “You were caught smoking far more often than I was. I was only caught once, and it was your fault for malingering around me.”

* * *

 

As the car drew up to the familiar school, now busy with men aged between eighteen and ninety who had attended it (as well as a number of current students serving drinks and the like), Sherlock breathed in sharply. He felt an odd sense of nostalgia, for while he had been very unhappy at school, he did have some very good memories there. Showing a younger boy how to use a bunsen burner and watching him scorch his eyebrows off, participating in a violent food fight and managing to get a plate of custard all over one of the school bullies (and later escaping the mass caning of all participants by getting an older student to stick up for him and claim that he wasn't there), getting a kiss from an attractive, comely boy a year or two older than him at one of those dreadful school disco's...there were some good moments. Raking a hand through his black curls, he stepped out of the car and almost directly on top of a very familiar face...his old headmaster!

“Sherlock Holmes?”

Even twenty years on, Sherlock felt as if he had to defer to the man. Repressing his eye roll, he nodded graciously, ready to step away and endure a few hours of people he vaguely remembered coming up and engaging in small talk.

“I'm surprised I recognized you – I saw your bottom considerably more than your face!”

It was almost wry amusement in the headmaster's voice as he spoke, looking over Sherlock in one sweeping glance, despite the fact that Sherlock had several inches in height over him. Sherlock gave an incredibly fake half-laugh, and was incredibly glad when Mycroft stepped forward, his hand thrust out and ready for a handshake. The headmaster took it warmly.

“Mycroft! Excellent to see you! I'm very glad that your parents passed on the invitations – it's good to see some of Wilkes's finest return!”

Mycroft smiled falsely back. “It's excellent to be back, headmaster – I have many memories of my eight years here.”

The headmaster clapped his hand against Mycroft's shoulder. “As a prefect and head boy, you should do! Times have changed nowadays – we even allow  _girls_ in the 'sixth form'.”

“Do you still work here? You're at least seventy!” Sherlock commented in surprise. The headmaster laughed.

“I see that you haven't changed, Sherlock. Yes, I'm a deputy headmaster – I gave up the main role years ago, it was too tiring for someone 'at least seventy', as you say.”

“Well, headmaster, it's been excellent to catch up with you, but we're very keen to track down other boys from our era.” Mycroft told the now-frail man, before grabbing Sherlock firmly by the elbow and yanking him away.

“You _don't_ point out how old he is, Sherlock! Christ!”

“What's he going to do about it?” Sherlock asked wryly. “Cane me?”

“You'd bloody deserve it if he did!” Mycroft exclaimed, losing his cool completely, before storming away towards a gaggle of men. 

* * *

 

As the day wore on, it became blatantly clear that the old hierarchical structures were still very firmly in place: old prefects and head boys were swarmed by other men, while Sherlock was left mostly to himself, with the occasional old teacher coming over and saying hello. That was until around one in the afternoon, when a figure plopped down next to him. A fat little figure, his uniform tight on his body.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, looking up at Sherlock with shining eyes. Sherlock awarded the adoring look with a slight incline of his head. 

“I couldn't _believe_ that you used to come here – you always look so cool in the newspapers (except when you wear that hat) and yet you came to this prison!”

Sherlock felt himself warm up a little to the boy. “Not a fan of institutions?”

The boy chuckled. “Institutions are fine – it's just Wilkes! It doesn't help that both of my older brothers are bloody prefects, and they love lording it over me, giving me detention at every opportunity.”

Hmm. That sounded familiar. “My brother was Head Boy whilst I was here.”

The boy laughed again. “My sister was Head Girl, but she left last year, thank god. All the boys – the straight boys, that is – had crushes on her.”

“Not too many people had crushes on Mycroft.” Sherlock smiled. “Though he did have a boyfriend a few years older than himself. People had a good laugh over that.”

“I'm Thomas Ure.” the boy told him, offering a hand to shake. Sherlock took it and gave it a brief shake, before dropping it. Even if this boy did seem reasonably...clean...he wasn't a fan of the human interaction.

“Why are you doing this day, then?” Sherlock asked, eyes scanning him. “You don't want to be here – and you're not enjoying the labour.”

“I was coerced into it by my _delightful_ brother Michael. He told me he'd tell one of our mums if I didn't, and I'd be grounded for about a hundred years if he did tell her.”

“Which ones are your brothers?” Sherlock began to feel a touch of interest towards this boy. Strict lesbian parents, youngest child, clearly had compulsion problems...he was an interesting character. Not too easy to deduce either. Michael pointed out two boys – one was chatting with his own old headmaster, while the other was serving tea to assorted old boys. They both looked incredibly smug and smarmy.

“Michael's the one with the deputy, Edward is the maid.”

“How well do you do at school?”

Thomas smiled ruefully. “Very well in some subjects, not at all well in others. I'm good at English, History and Geography, but Maths and Science make me want to throw up. I love your deductions, though, they fascinate me. Sort of like English, because you're using language- or body language, at least.”

Before Sherlock could reply, there was a loud announcement over a speaker.

“Can all old and new boys gather for speeches, please?”

* * *

 

“Today is the first Wilkes old boy reunion in over fifty years, and we are thrilled to see many of our most esteemed old boys here today. It is amazing to see how many fine fellows this school has turned out into the world, and as such we have a number of awards to give out, all in jest.”

Sherlock's old headmaster might look frail, but in his eyes he was still a powerful authority figure. He commanded the attention of everyone on the school grounds, despite his microphone faltering throughout his words. In his hands were a sheaf of glossy papers, and there were a few boxes to his side, evidently prizes for certain individuals. Standing beside Thomas, Sherlock made a silent bet that Mycroft would be within the first three boys called.

“Most successful old boy...Mycroft Holmes! Come up and get your certificate, Mycroft!”

Sherlock grinned to himself as Mycroft loped up on stage, an intimidating figure minimised by his discomfort at being in front of so many people. He practically snatched away his certificate and stalked off of stage again, cringing to himself. The certificates were mostly very bland, some being accompanied by old school mementoes – the best kitchen helper got a ladle, best footballer got a football and so on. Soon, there was only one certificate and one box left.

“Perhaps the most comic of all the awards...most caned boy!”

A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, and Sherlock closed his eyes slowly. Oh God. It would be him. 

“This boy was utterly incorrigible, he brushed off the harshest of canings with just a watery smile and he was one of the most difficult students I have ever dealt with. However, he could also be charming, funny and intensely intelligent. Congratulations...Sherlock Holmes!”

More laughter went through the crowd, and as Sherlock strolled up to the platform to collect his certificate and mystery box, he saw that Mycroft looked vaguely pleased. 

“Open your box, Sherlock!”

Sherlock opened it, and stared in surprise at what came out – a cane, a cane that he recognized. Intimately.

“As we have no use for it any more, we thought it might be a good memento for you!”

The entire crowd was laughing heartily now, both at the bemused look on Sherlock's face as well as the whole situation. The laughter died very suddenly, however, when Sherlock took the thin stick between two hands, bent it as far as he could and finally snapped it, throwing the two pieces down. As he strolled back down off of the stage, hands in pockets, he grinned to himself, which intensified further when a single person began to applaud him: Thomas.  _My God_ , Sherlock thought, listening to the silence,  _that was satisfying._

* * *

 

“Sherlock, you are unbelievable.” John grinned, wiping away a tear of mirth which had swelled in the corner of one eye. “You actually _snapped_ it...what did Mycroft say?”

Smiling himself, Sherlock replied, “Oh, he made his displeasure very plain. An incredibly dull lecture followed by a threat along the lines of 'Mother still has her cane and you'd better watch out'.”

“Good on you, Sherlock.” John honestly told him, handing him a mug of tea. “You went through a lot at that place, snapping a cane must have been fantastic.”

“Honestly, John, it was one of the greatest moments of my life. Up there with when I hid Mycroft's school-issued slipper that he got for prefect duty.”

“You _have_ to tell me that story!”

As Sherlock launched into the story with vigour, he finally felt himself move on from the slight hanging misery that had remained with him since school.

 


End file.
